1884 ***




[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 21.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, MAY 24, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM.


Coasting along the arid Syrian shore, there is little to attract the
attention of the traveller from Port Said to Jaffa, till the last-named
town is in sight. If, however, there is a haze upon the water and the
wind is from the shore, a powerful perfume of orange-flowers borne
across the sea is the first intimation that one is nearing Jaffa,
perhaps the most ancient town—certainly one of the most ancient
towns—in the world. Presuming that no wind has sprung up since you left
the Egyptian port—in which case you will be carried on to Beyrout, as
the steamers only touch at Jaffa in calm weather, owing to the danger
and almost impossibility of landing passengers or goods—presuming,
however, that all is well, you reach Jaffa most probably in the early
morning; and having anchored outside a reef of rocks which incloses a
natural harbour permitting the entrance only of small boats, you look
upon a scene as picturesque and peculiarly eastern in its character as
you could wish. Rising abruptly from the sea, the whitened, flat-roofed
houses intermingle with the domes of the mosques and the convent
towers; while the surmounting citadel, the surrounding wall, and
massive gates, give the distinctive character that one had observed in
Tangier, or Algiers, or Cairo.

Along the quay is collected a throng of people, containing
representatives of half the ports in the Levant or the East. Huge
brown-sailed boats are moored in the smooth water within; while
outside, the water washes over the encircling rocks—the fabled rocks of
Andromeda’s captivity. Palms and plantain trees are scattered here and
there, with the glimpse of orchards beyond; and stately camels, with
their stalwart Bedouin guides, carrying bales of merchandise or corn,
now and again move across the line of vision on the shore. And now the
boats are putting out to the steamer, and the swarthy boatmen ply their
oars with vigour; and boats filled with oranges and lemons and gigantic
melons, and bright-hued fishes, swarm around us. Not least, to add
to the general effect, and certainly chiefest for one’s individual
comfort, are the men of Cook and Howard the agents, clad respectively
in blue and red, who in well-manned boats are at the service of the
traveller. Here, be it remarked, that whatever prejudice may exist
amongst ordinary British travellers against ‘Cooking it’ on the
continent, in the East the services of these agents are invaluable; and
the travelling public owes much to them for having brought dragomans,
guides, hotel-keepers, and stable-keepers to some decency in the matter
of their charges. Placing ourselves in the hands of one of them, we are
landed at the quay, and pass along the narrow crowded street that leads
to the market-place at the top of the town.

The first thing that struck one was the remarkable beauty of the
inhabitants, men and women alike. Jews, Turks, Syrians, and Arabs were
all in marked contrast to the ugly squat Egyptians amongst whom we
had recently sojourned; and the Bedouins are a much finer race than
those of either the Egyptian or Sinaitic Desert, whose acquaintance
we had just made. As may be assumed, there is a marked Jewish cast of
countenance—as we call it at home—amongst all classes, even to the
Bedouins. The camels, too, are larger and finer looking. It is to be
feared, however, that it is only in physical qualities that the Syrians
can show a superiority to the Egyptians; morally, they appear to be
very much on a par.

We pass along the winding antiquated street, through ancient arches,
up occasional broad steps, past shops of all kinds—holes in the wall,
where Jews and Greeks, squatted on their hams, are ready to sell you
anything from an estate to a pair of slippers—jostled by camels and
mules and donkeys carrying grain and merchandise of various kinds, and
accompanied by the handsome picturesque Bedouins of the Syrian Desert,
through bazaars with fruit-sellers, water-carriers, and hawkers of all
kinds plying their various trades, until we reach the market-place,
where there seems to be more spirit and business-like animation
than one usually sees in the East. The house of Simon the tanner is
pointed out to us, and we receive the information with the necessary
reserve. But there are unmistakable tanneries in its neighbourhood,
if that evidence goes for anything. Arrived at the hotel, we first
ordered a couple of horses to be got ready as soon as possible; and
having viewed the sorry-looking hacks, took a hurried breakfast,
as we were anxious to be on the road. Good horses and saddles are
usually to be obtained in Syria without any difficulty, but we had
unfortunately hit upon the very time when they were least plentiful,
namely, the Thursday following Easter Sunday. Breakfast was not a very
long affair, consisting of the inevitable cutlet and eggs, anchovies,
sliced sausages, olives, figs, and oranges—to which some months in the
East had made us familiar. A most dirty and exasperating waiter, who
seemed to take more than the average delight of his Syrian countrymen
in telling lies, boldly asked for ‘backsheesh,’ informing us that his
former statement as to being the proprietor was untrue; and when he saw
us loading our revolvers, asked what we were ‘going to shoot his people
for; that was not good!’ However, he did us the honour to guide us
personally to a point where the road led to Jerusalem; and away we went
on our journey.

The road was very dusty, but the air was full of the perfume of
flowers; and it was delicious to ride past the orange groves and
gardens and orchards that extended for nearly a mile out of the
busy, jostling, evil-smelling town. After passing the orchards and
gardens, the road becomes rather tame and barren, and though well
enough for riding, must be terribly disagreeable for those who
undertake the journey by carriage. We met many pilgrims returning from
Jerusalem—there had been ten thousand of them there in Holy Week.
They came trooping past, on camels, mules, donkeys, and horses, in
carts and carriages, and many on foot. They were chiefly Russians, but
many were Levantines. Many carried the precious relics that had been
made sacred to them by being laid upon the Holy Sepulchre, or perhaps
thrust into the so-called ‘Holy Fire.’ Sometimes a crowd would appear
in the distance, and the long cylindrical tins containing sanctified
candles—some of them five or six feet long—would shine like lances in
the sun. ‘Family’ camels with a sort of howdah, or a canopy with beds
on either side or ‘atop,’ would hold some three or four children and
their mother. Others would be squatted on the top of their baggage.
All their faces had a pleased and satisfied look, as of having
accomplished a desirable work. At intervals of a mile or so, we passed
the guardhouses of the police, placed for the protection of the road
to Jerusalem; and after about three hours and a half, reached Ramleh,
the first halting-place on the road, and remarkable for its broad and
clean streets, and its well-to-do, sleepy appearance. Indeed, but for
the hideously diseased and distorted mendicants, one might have thought
one’s self in some rather odd-looking English or French or German
village; which feeling would not be dispelled by the homely appearance
of the primitive little German hotel, where we were supplied with cold
meat and salad, and the most delicious beer we had tasted since leaving
England—_Marzenburg Export Bier_, it was called. After a short halt, we
remounted, having only paid a hurried visit to the tower of Ramleh—a
landmark for some distance over this flat country, and whence one
obtains an extensive view. The road now improves somewhat, though there
is little of interest or beauty to be seen. An hour’s ride brought us
to the village of Kubâb, where we obtained some oranges and a drink of
water, the heat being very great.

Leaving Kubâb, we shortly after entered the valley of Ajalon, where we
enjoyed a pleasant gallop over the rich soft earth skirting the fields,
which in a few weeks would be covered with verdure. The roadway itself
was in course of being mended, and one pitied the unhappy occupants of
the vehicles forced to traverse the highway. Here we were passed by
hundreds of pilgrims, with whom we exchanged the usual ‘Liltak said,’
or ‘Naharak rubârah,’ of friendly greeting; and shortly after ascending
an incline at the end of the valley, reached Latroon, the supposed
birthplace of the Penitent Thief. By the roadside was a rough kind
of restaurant, at which many pilgrims were regaling themselves with
coffee, cakes, fruit, and their hubble-bubbles. But turning off the
main road, we alighted at the _Latroon Hotel_, where everything was of
a rather primitive character, but managed by a civil and intelligent
young Greek. We were made very comfortable. The freshness in the air
here was delightful, after our dusty and hot ride; and as it was now
about four o’clock, and there was still a good six hours to Jerusalem,
we determined upon staying at Latroon for the night. The interesting
historical associations of the surrounding country—the passing of the
pilgrims—the tinkling of bells—the finely placed ruin of the ‘Castle of
the Good Thief’—the rustic character of the people about, who forgot
even to ask for backsheesh—the fertile fields—here a group of Bedouins
with their camels brought to knee—there a batch of pilgrims settling
down for the night—while shepherds hurry home their flocks, and horses
and mules and asses are being tethered for the night—all served to
bring before one a charming and interesting picture, that was well
worth the delay.

After a very refreshing night’s rest in a clean and comfortable room,
we started betimes next morning. Half an hour from Latroon brought
us to the mouth of Wady Ali, a lovely glen, through which one enters
amongst the Judæan hills. The glen, with large rocks and boulders on
either side, but rich in wild-flowers of all kinds, and prominent
amongst them our own national thistle, did indeed at times remind us
of spots we had known in the west of Scotland. After winding through
a delightfully picturesque valley, well wooded, and rich in olive
groves, we began to make the ascent of the Judæan hills, winding round
and about by steep zigzag paths, occasionally obtaining fine views of
the surrounding country, and on reaching the summit, had a splendid
panorama of the coast of Syria with the Mediterranean beyond, and away
to the south the bare Desert of Tih, running up to the well-cultivated
country of Palestine. We had last seen this Tih Desert from the
mountains of Sinai, away to the south-east.

The country about the summit of the Judæan hills is wild and bare
and rocky; and as we begin again to descend gradually by zigzag and
abrupt ups and downs, the road is often steep, and always difficult,
and gives one an opportunity of testing and admiring the sureness of
foot of the Arab horse. Poor as were the specimens we bestrode—and
neither of the riders was a light weight—they picked their way amongst
loose stones or glistening rocks, and down the steep inclines, with a
perfectly marvellous facility, and galloped over the rough rock-strewn
roads as if their legs were made of cast-iron. It is rare to find an
Arab that will trot properly. The usual pace is a quick walk, or an
amble, a most serviceable pace, which they seem capable of keeping up
indefinitely, and which is as little distressing to the horse as to his
rider. The shoe, which consists of a flat piece of metal with a hole
in the middle, certainly does not seem to the stranger exactly adapted
to their work; and a horse is sometimes lamed by a small stone getting
into the hole; but acute judges say that this mode of shoeing—common
all over the East—has advantages where the roads are hard, hot, and dry.

Presently we come upon the village of Kirjath-Jearim (the ‘Village of
the Grapes’), and passing the possible Emmaus, descend to Kolonieh,
close by a river-bed, which we cross by a bridge, to make the last
ascent of the journey. On reaching the top of this ascent, Jerusalem
appears suddenly close to us with a suburb of modern buildings:
hospitals, almshouses, and villas—spick-and-span with iron railings,
porters’ lodges, and clocks—European time, and Roman numerals on
the face! which make us rub our eyes for the moment. Passing these,
however, we come immediately to the walls of the Holy City; and turning
sharply off to the left, past the new German hotel (Fiel), the only one
outside the walls, we enter the Damascus Gate, and our journey is at an
end.

It does not come within the scope of the present article to give a
description, which has been done a thousand times before, of anything
beyond the mere journey from Jaffa to Jerusalem. But in a few
words it must be said that the impression is one of disappointment
at Jerusalem. The streets are dirty and ill-paved, and scarcely
any properly authenticated spot can actually be pointed out. Each
sanctimonious-looking dragoman has a sniffle, and ‘lies like a wily
Hindu.’ From the Greek or Armenian priest who humbugs the miserable
pilgrims with his ‘Holy Fire,’ to the hawker of cards of sham flowers
from Zion or Bethlehem, sham shells from the Jordan, or sham wood from
Olivet, there is nothing but falsehood and extortion. About the only
redeeming feature amidst the mass of corruption, dirt, and hypocrisy,
is the well-kept and trim little English church, with its decent
congregation; while certainly the only well-ordered quarter of the city
is the Moslem quarter.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XXIX.—SUSPICION.

And those interlacing shadows of the bare branches across the footpath
through the forest which had been like delicate fairy fretwork when
Philip passed along, broadened and deepened into black masses before
the father as he followed. He had no purpose in following, beyond a
vague craving to know what Madge would say when she learned that he had
disinherited this favourite of the family, and a fancy that it would be
pleasant to walk back with him, when he might explain more fully than
he had done the motives by which he had been actuated.

He, too, knew this pathway well; but, although he walked on, he had not
yet decided to go all the way. When he entered the glade in which the
King’s Oak reigned, he halted. This was a place for elfin revels, and
fairy-rings were common in it. Every child brought here to play felt
sure that this was the very spot where little Red Riding Hood met the
wolf, and that her grandmother’s cottage stood over there, where some
funny people tried to make them believe was once a Roman camp. Romans
indeed! as if they were going to give up the delightful association
of Red Riding Hood with the place for a lot of dull people they were
forced to read about in school-books! And, of course, it was here also
that the other Hood called Robin assembled with his merry men, and
Little John and Friar Tuck. It was no use attempting to correct their
geography by informing them that Sherwood Forest was a long way from
here: the child’s imagination insists upon associating its heroes with
known places.

Mr Hadleigh was reminded of the happy group of children he had found
here in the sunshine not long ago, and as their bright faces rose
before him in the soft twilight, he seemed to grow strong again.
Pleasant memories are as helpful to us as pleasant anticipations.

When he resumed his way, he walked more firmly than he had done since
Philip left him. He had now decided to go on and wait for him near the
stile; and he unconsciously quickened his pace, although aware that he
would have plenty of time to spare. On reaching the roadway, however,
he proceeded leisurely, listening to the river, but hearing no melody
in it.

As he approached the stile, he saw the figures of a man and woman
slowly cross the road. They shook hands, and he heard the man say:

‘I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it. Be faithful, and I
shall be able to think of the past without pain.’

There was a reply, but in a tone so low that it did not reach his ears.
He recognised in the man the stranger who had recently taken up his
quarters in the village, although he had only seen him once and, then,
at a distance. The woman was Madge.

They parted. She hurried up the meadow; and after a brief pause, Mr
Beecham turned in the direction of the village.

Mr Hadleigh had involuntarily halted, feeling that he was the
accidental spectator of an incident for which the actors had not
desired an audience. Beecham’s words and the girl’s manner satisfied
him of that. He became immediately aware, however, that standing still
would naturally suggest that he was playing the part of a spy. And he
could not escape observation, for the man was coming straight towards
him. He, therefore, resumed his leisurely pace.

As was frequently his habit, Mr Beecham walked with head slightly bent,
his eyes seeming to read strange writings on the ground. At the sound
of approaching footsteps, he looked up. There was a momentary and
unaccountable change in his expression—as if he had suddenly passed
under the shadow of a tree, and coming into the full light again it was
placid and gentle as usual.

‘Good-evening,’ said Mr Hadleigh hastily, remembering the country
custom he had adopted of saluting any one he encountered on the road.

‘Good-evening,’ echoed Beecham, with a slight inclination of the head.

They passed, moving quietly on their opposite ways. Neither looked
back, for each was conscious that the other intended or wished to do
so, and did not care to be caught in the act.

That is one of the droll sensations often experienced in the common
course of daily life. We meet a friend, part, and without any reason,
have a desire to look after him, but restrain ourselves, lest he, being
similarly disposed, should ‘catch us at it.’ We laugh at ourselves,
and forget the absurd impulse. But what informs the look, the breath,
the tone which makes us like or dislike a man or a woman without
any apparent justification? The mystery is one which the poets and
philosophers of all ages seem to be continually touching, but never
grasping. Some call it instinct, others animal magnetism. All we know
is that we feel and cannot tell why; but there are few who have not had
occasion to regret that they have not allowed themselves to be guided
by this inexplicable influence.

Mr Hadleigh, merely passing this stranger in the deepening twilight,
knew that he was a foe.

Whether or not surprise at the words he had overheard, and wonder at
their being addressed to Miss Heathcote, had anything to do with the
sensation, he could not tell; but he felt as keen a chill as if he had
passed an iceberg—mentally and physically the sensation was exactly the
same. Yet he had heard nothing but praise of this quiet, kindly-looking
gentleman. There was a degree of chagrin, certainly, in the thought
that in a few weeks Mr Beecham—a casual visitor, as he might still
be called—had obtained more influence amongst the villagers than the
master of Ringsford had won by years of endeavour to help and guide
them.

Of course, Mr Hadleigh attributed this success to the fact that the
stranger was indiscriminate in his charity. He gave help wherever it
was wanted, without taking the trouble to inquire into each case, or
to advise the recipients of his bounty as to the future conduct which
would insure their independence. He gave them their own way, in short,
saying nothing about the carelessness which created their necessities.
To a man who has the means, this is the easiest and shortest road to
popularity. But this could never result in permanent benefit to the
poor.

Now, Mr Hadleigh had really tried to do permanent good: and, compared
to this newcomer, he was still a stranger amongst the people. All
allowance being made for the difference of temperament and the
difference of method, it was difficult to understand why Mr Beecham
should so quickly win what Mr Hadleigh had long striven for with so
little result—the affection of those around him.

He turned his eyes inward: was not this part—a great part—of the
penalty he had to pay for making worldly success his first thought and
Love the second? Was it too late to win one heart? He had gained the
admiration, the esteem, the envy of many: was it too late to win one
heart? How common folk would laugh at this rich, prosperous man, if
they knew that life was a misery to him because he had cast away its
crown—if they knew how gladly he would change places with his poorest
labourer, if by so doing he might secure the affection for which he
craved.

If Philip’s mother had been with him, he would have lavished upon her
all that wealth could buy!... There he stopped, in bitterness, for
he came to the end of his world again: wealth could not buy love.
Obsequious submission, a show of respect, obedience to his orders, he
could hire: but that was all. This man Beecham, without apparent effort
or sacrifice, obtained at once the ‘Something’ that was beyond price.

To his relief came curiosity and suspicion of—he did not know what. But
why should this man receive any promise from Miss Heathcote? Why should
it have to do with his past? Why should she, who was to be Philip’s
wife, be there, speaking to a stranger, when her lover was waiting for
her?

He halted, and after a moment’s hesitation, turned in the direction of
the village. He was not to wait for his son.

At first he walked slowly, as if he might still change his mind; but
as his thoughts quickened, so did his steps, and the church tower was
looming darkly against the slate-like sky when he stopped at the gate
of Mr Wrentham’s cottage.

A pretty little squat building of one story, lying well back from the
road; a patch of green surrounded by bushy evergreens, and the front
wall covered with trellis-work, at present supporting a spider’s web of
branches, which in season blossomed into red and white roses, making
the cottage look like a bower rather than a homestead.

At the gate, Mr Hadleigh again hesitated, as if doubtful whether or not
to carry out the intention which had brought him to the place. Since
the evening of Philip’s accident, he had spoken very little in private
to Wrentham. Natural enough as the accident had appeared, he was
afflicted by an uneasy feeling that Wrentham had something to do with
bringing it about, and that to his own visit to Golden Alley the first
blame was due.

With some impatience at his weakness, he rang the bell and advanced to
the door. The servant was new to the place, and required to ask the
visitor’s name; whereupon a door was flung open, and Wrentham came out
with effusive cordiality.

‘My dear Mr Hadleigh, this is a grand surprise. I won’t stop to ask
you what has made you think of dropping in upon me; but I must say
thank you for a new pleasure. Come in, come in; there is nobody here
but myself. I have only arrived within the last five minutes, and Mrs
Wrentham is putting our girl to sleep. You have passed over these
stages of domestic inconvenience; but you can excuse us for not being
always in reception order. We let our visitors take us as they find us,
and those who don’t like it need not come again. Simple and sensible
rule, is it not? But we should have liked _you_ to find us a little
more in apple-pie order, especially as it is your first visit.’

This was spoken with Wrentham’s usual gay rapidity, allowing his
unexpected guest no opportunity to protest, as he ushered him into a
tidy little drawing-room which was apparently very much in ‘reception
order.’ Chairs, tables, nick-nacks were almost too primly arranged to
accord with the free-and-easy ways which the owner professed. He was,
however, so seldom in the room that he was ignorant of its condition.
The dining-room, on the other side of the passage, was his ‘snuggery,’
and there he spent his evenings when at home, which was seldom until
late at night; and frequently he was absent for days on business.

But he was an affectionate husband and father. He was particular about
having his wife and daughter always dressed in the newest and finest
fabrics, and regularly took them out for a treat on Saturday or Sunday.
Mrs Wrentham was a delicate, nervous lady, apparently content with
her lot, and glad to escape from the toil of visiting and receiving
visitors. Her whole existence was filled by her child Ada, a bright
creature of eight years, nicknamed by her father ‘Pussie,’ on account
of her passionate attachment to cats.

‘Will you take a chair?’ Wrentham went on. ‘You are such a fellow for
taking one by surprise—always a pleasant surprise; but you give one no
chance of doing anything to show how it is appreciated. You dropped
down upon me in Golden Alley, just as you have dropped down upon me
here, without the least warning.’

Mr Hadleigh listened patiently, his cold, dreaming eyes staring
vacantly at him, but closely noting every change on his face.

‘I hope I do not disturb you?’ he said quietly, taking the proffered
chair.

‘My dear sir!—as if I should not be delighted to see you under any
circumstances—at any time—in any place!’

‘You are very kind. I come to you for the same reason that I visited
your office—I want some information which I think you may be able to
give me.’

‘About your son? I am afraid there is not much I can say in regard to
him that will be satisfactory to a man of business like yourself.’

Wrentham shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if the subject
were one he would rather not discuss.

‘It is not about my son that I desire to speak to you this time.’

There was a peculiar emphasis on the last two words, suggestive that
the result of the former conversation had not been satisfactory.
Wrentham was, or very cleverly affected to be, unconscious of the
suggestion.

‘I am glad of that—real glad, as Americans say. And yet I have more
than once had a notion of going to you and asking you to try to bring
the young man to reason. I am supposed to be his manager and adviser.
My management consists in doing the work of a message-boy—that is,
strictly carrying out his instructions: my advice is nowhere.’

‘I have no desire to interfere with him in his present course.’

‘So I supposed, and that is what has kept me from going to you. I had
no idea, until after accepting this agreement with him, that he was
such an obstinate beggar—you know that I am speaking of him as my
friend. He has got this mania—I have told him that I consider it a
mania—and he sticks to it. Unfortunately, his uncle approves of it; but
you know that this is not business—he will never get anything out of
it.’

‘Not in your sense, Mr Wrentham; but there are some profits which
cannot be reckoned by the figures in our ledgers—and some losses too.’

‘Undoubtedly, sir, undoubtedly; at the same time, you cannot blame me
for taking the commonplace view of things, and regretting that a young
man with such a splendid opportunity should deliberately chuck it into
the gutter. Why, with his capital, I can see a magnificent future, if
he would only consent to follow the dictates of common-sense.’

‘You mean those dictates which lead to the making of money. His notion
is to make people happy. Well, as you are aware, I have had some
experience in obeying common-sense, as you understand it; and I am
curious to see the result of Philip’s experiment. I have no desire and
no right to interfere with him.’

‘The result will be ruin—absolute ruin. In less than twelve months
he will not have a penny of the whole capital now at his disposal.
However, as you say, we have nothing to do with it. At the same time, I
trust you will, for my sake, remember by-and-by that I have entered my
protest against the course he is pursuing.’

‘I shall remember,’ said Mr Hadleigh, inclining his head gravely. ‘What
I called to ask you was, do you know anything about Mr Beecham, who
seems to have taken permanent quarters at the _King’s Head_?’

‘Beecham!’ exclaimed Wrentham gleefully, as if intensely relieved by an
agreeable change of subject. ‘I should think so. I believe that it was
my privilege to be the first amongst his acquaintances in Kingshope. I
don’t think he would object to my saying that he is a friend of mine.
A capital fellow—simple as a child, and yet wise as a philosopher ever
can be.’

‘That sounds like a sneer at philosophers.’

‘I did not mean it; but there is a difference between the man who is a
philosopher and the man who is up to the time of day. Now, this Beecham
has travelled a great deal, read a great deal, and knows a great deal;
but he doesn’t know a game at cards. I had to show him how to play Nap!’

Mr Hadleigh was not interested by this record of the simplicity of the
stranger; he was occupied by some other reflection, which caused his
brows to contract and his eyelids to droop.

‘Has he told you what part of the world he comes from?’

Wrentham laughed.

‘Why, he comes from everywhere—America, Australia, and likely enough
the North Pole, although he has not particularly referred to it.’

Mr Hadleigh rose.

‘Will you find out for me, if you can, where he came from last?’

Wrentham became suddenly serious.

‘You don’t suppose there is anything wrong about him? He acts and talks
straightforwardly enough.’

‘I am asking you, Mr Wrentham, for information,’ answered Mr Hadleigh
with a mechanical smile. ‘If you have won money from him in betting or
playing Nap, I have no doubt you will be paid. My inquiry is suggested
by the fact, that he has reminded me of an old—acquaintance’ (he seemed
to falter over the word, as if he had wished to say friend, but could
not). ‘Should he be the man, I want to have a little conversation with
him.’

‘Meaning no harm to him?’ queried Wrentham, suspiciously.

‘On the contrary—good to him and to myself.’

‘Then I shall go along and see him this evening. He’ll tell me at once.’

‘I would prefer that my name was not mentioned.’

‘Oh ... that may make a difference. However, I have no doubt of being
able to give you the information you want by to-morrow.’

Mr Hadleigh went away, turning his steps homeward. Through the forest
again. Those withered branches were like the milestones of his life,
and the pathway of withered leaves was a fitting one for him. You who
love nature know that those leaves which the careless call dead are the
nurses of the coming spring blossoms; and to him they brought back old
thoughts, old faces. How beautiful they are: beautiful, because our
tenderest thoughts have their roots in graves.




SOME CURIOSITIES OF THE PEERAGE.

IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.


The most recent instance of reviving an extinct title is the assumption
by Sir Henry Brand, late Speaker of the House of Commons, of the
Viscounty of Hampden. It is usual for the Speaker, on retiring from
office, to be created a Viscount, and there are circumstances of
interest surrounding the elevation of Sir Henry Brand to this dignity.
In the first place, he is heir-presumptive to the barony of Dacre,
now held by his brother, the twenty-second lord, who was born in
1808. Should, therefore, Lord Hampden survive Lord Dacre, the ancient
barony will merge in the recent viscounty and be lost sight of. But
why should Sir Henry Brand have chosen the title of Hampden? The fact
is this title is young compared with the _name_ borne by ‘the great
Buckinghamshire Esquire,’ as Macaulay calls the illustrious patriot. It
was created in 1776, when Robert Trevor, fourth baron of that title,
assumed the name of Hampden, and was created Viscount Hampden of Great
and Little Hampden, in the county of Bucks, where the Hampdens had been
the untitled lords long before the Conquest. Three Trevor-Hampdens bore
this title, which became extinct in 1824. Now, between the Trevors
and the Lords Dacre there is a connection, which we will endeavour
to shortly exhibit. The original family name of the Lords Dacre was
Dacre; but an unusual variety of other surnames have been at different
times assumed by them. In 1715, the fifteenth lord died without male
issue; and his daughter Anne became Baroness Dacre, sixteenth holder of
the title, who was three times married, and had male issue by each of
her husbands. One of them, Thomas Barrett Lennard, became seventeenth
Lord Dacre. A son, Charles, by her second marriage, became the husband
of Gertrude, daughter and co-heir of John Trevor, Esq., of Glynde in
Sussex. The children of Charles and Gertrude were a son and a daughter;
of whom the former became eighteenth Lord Dacre, and the latter
another Baroness Dacre (nineteenth), who married, in 1771, Thomas
Brand, Esq., of the Hoo, Welwyn, Herts; and thus we bring together the
Trevors and the Brands. The twentieth Lord Dacre died without issue,
and was succeeded by his brother, the twenty-first lord, who assumed
the name and arms of Trevor, in compliance with a direction in the
will of the last Viscount Hampden. Accordingly, while the surname of
the present Lord Dacre is Trevor, that of his brother, Lord Hampden,
is merely Brand. It is understood that some members of the family of
the Earl of Buckinghamshire, whose patronymic is Hobart Hampden—they
being descended in the female line from the patriot, who left no male
issue—endeavoured to dissuade Sir Henry Brand from taking the title
which he chose. But surely, considering the circumstances mentioned
above, he was justified in his selection; and all will feel that the
title of Hampden could not be borne by one more worthy to be associated
with this great name than the late Speaker.

The foregoing transcripts from titular and family history have been
somewhat detailed, inasmuch as their features are representative of
many other peerages, and also elucidate various matters connected with
the peerage not patent to all persons. They show _inter alia_ how
titles may not only be extinguished, but may be shifted about from
family to family when the limitations of those titles are in fee. They
show, also, why it is that a peer who is generally known by one title
may yet sit and vote in the House of Lords or Peers by some other; the
short explanation being, that he is not a peer of the United Kingdom,
or, in other words, a peer of the entire realm, so far as his first
title is concerned. In our previous paper ‘What is a Peer?’ this
feature of the peerage was alluded to; and we may now add that there
is only one peer, who, not being a peer of the realm in regard to his
chief title, yet sits and votes in the House of Lords by a title as
exalted as the other. This is the Duke of Hamilton, who, though premier
Duke of Scotland, yet, as such has no hereditary seat in parliament,[1]
while as Duke of Brandon he has; and he would be so described in the
Lords’ division lists. Then, again, the Marquis of Huntly, though
premier Marquis of Scotland, is yet only Lord Meldrum when sitting in
the House of Lords. The Marquis of Sligo is only such in the peerage
of Ireland, but sits in parliament as Lord Monteagle; and there is
also a Lord Monteagle who is a peer of the realm by that title only.
The eighteenth Earl of Erroll is singularly situated. When sitting in
parliament he is Lord Kilmarnock, and this is the courtesy title borne
by his eldest son, so that there are two Lords Kilmarnock!

The distinctions just referred to between peers of the United Kingdom
and those who are not have given rise to some singular features in the
peerage which are, at first sight, of an anomalous character. Thus,
while the son of a tradesman who becomes a peer of the United Kingdom
to-day may die to-morrow, and his son may take his seat in the House of
Lords as an hereditary legislator; on the other hand, the thirty-fourth
Scotch Earl of Mar—merely as such—and the thirty-first Irish Lord
Kingsale have no hereditary right to a seat in the legislature,
although the latter is premier Baron of Ireland. It is of course
competent to the Crown—the fountain of honour—to promote these and
other noblemen similarly situated to the peerage of the United Kingdom;
but until this is done, they take rank below the last created baron of
the realm. At one time it appears to have been usual to honour a man
by first making him an Irish peer, and then to promote him gradually,
as in the case of Rawdon, Earl of Moira, and conspicuously so in that
of the Fitzwilliam peerage and others. But then we must remember that
it was not before January 1, 1801, that the expression ‘United Kingdom
of Great Britain and Ireland’ was known; nor before 1707 that the term
‘Great Britain’ was, or could in law have been applied to England and
Scotland as a whole.[2] The one was created by the statute 39 and 40
Geo. III. c. 67 (July 2, 1800), the other by 5 and 6 Anne c. 8 (May
1, 1707). To these statutes we refer the reader desirous of more
information on this subject. He may also peruse that interesting work
of light reading, _The Reports of the Lords’ Committees on the Dignity
of a Peer of the Realm_, comprised in four folio volumes (1826).

In ‘What is a Peer?’ we made allusion to peerages created by writ of
summons and by letters-patent. We may here observe that there was
another form of barony, that by tenure, which, however, long ago
became obsolete. Now, it is to be remarked with regard to the creation
of a barony by writ of summons, that it always conferred a peerage
in fee—in other words, one descendible to males and females—and this
will introduce us to two terms previously mentioned, ‘abeyance’ and
‘co-heirs,’ which require a short explanation. It will be convenient
to furnish this by reference to those baronies of the Huntingdon
earldom which, we have seen, were transplanted, so to speak, from
the Hastings into the Rawdon family by the single act of marriage of
an heiress of the former with a member of the latter house. The word
‘abeyance’ itself is peculiar, and signifies, to look at something
expectingly—in fact, with open mouth. It has been used with regard to
corporeal hereditaments; but the subject of estates in abeyance, or
in _nubibus_, is far too intricate to be entered upon here. We must,
however, make some allusion to the law of real property, in order to
render our succeeding statements intelligible—and titles of honour
are to be dealt with under the rules of that branch of law. There are
some of those rules, however, which, though applicable to ordinary
incorporeal hereditaments, are not so to titles of honour. Thus, while
an acre of land in fee is alienable, a title in fee is not; it may
devolve, but cannot be devised. Again, if the tenant or, as we commonly
say, the owner of an estate in fee simple dies intestate, leaving no
sons, but daughters, all the latter inherit as ‘co-heirs,’ or, as
lawyers call them, ‘coparceners,’ who are regarded in law as making
one heir. Under such circumstances, they may sever the joint ownership
if they like; but if they do not, the entire estate may devolve upon
the last survivor, assuming the others to die unmarried and intestate.
This right of survivorship will not, however, exist as against the heir
of any of them where the above circumstances are wanting. Thus, if A.
and B. are coparceners, and B. marries, dies, and leaves a son C., the
right of B. will descend on C.; and so on. Well, now, a title of honour
clearly cannot be made the subject of partition; and accordingly, if
the male holder of a barony which originated in a writ of summons
dies leaving two daughters, his barony does not become extinct, but
falls into ‘abeyance.’ If one of these daughters marries, then dies,
leaving a daughter, but her own sister still unmarried, the barony
is still in abeyance until either the aunt or her niece dies. If the
latter predeceases the former, leaving no issue, there is an end of the
abeyance; the aunt assumes the title; but if she dies without having
been married, the title then becomes ‘extinct.’ If, on the other hand,
the niece has male children, and dies, her eldest son succeeds; and
if the latter dies without issue, leaving no brothers or their issue,
but only sisters, who do not marry, the title will again fall into
abeyance. Thus, it is seen how a barony may be in abeyance, and how
there may be co-heirs thereto as claimants also, how such co-heirs and
their heirs may exist as such for an indefinite period, or until the
title can devolve upon _one_ person. The Crown, however, may exercise
its prerogative of terminating the abeyance in favour of one of them,
as was done in the Zouche peerage in 1828.

But to return to the Hastings’ honours, and the baronies which
Elizabeth transferred to the Rawdon family. The first Baron Hungerford
was summoned by writ in the reign of Henry VI.; and his son married
Margaret, daughter of Baron Botreaux, thus acquiring this title. Their
son Robert married the daughter of Baron Molynes or Molines, and in her
right assumed that title, with his own and Botreaux. He was beheaded
in 1463. The son of this last Baron Hungerford had a daughter, Mary,
who married the first Baron Hastings somewhere about 1480, was summoned
to parliament by writ; and in 1485 the attainder of the Hungerfords
was reversed, and the family honours were restored. The third Baron
Hastings was raised to the earldom of Huntingdon, in which dignity
these honours were merged; and when the eighteenth earl died in 1789,
they descended to his sister, the mother of the first marquis, and
this is really how they came into the Rawdon family. It will also be
understood from what precedes that the only dignity in the peerage
which can fall into abeyance, and, accordingly, to which there can only
be co-heirs, is a barony created by writ; and we may observe, that when
it cannot be determined upon whom a higher title devolves, there is
said to be a ‘suspension’ of that title. It is also to be remembered
that as no barony is known to have been created by letters-patent prior
to the eleventh year of Richard II., baronies created before then are
presumed to have been created by writ of summons.

We have said that the Crown by the exercise of its prerogative may
terminate an abeyance, and this may be done either in favour of a
person who is, or one who is not, a peer. In the former case, a writ of
summons issues to him by the style of the barony in abeyance; in the
latter, letters-patent are employed, and this is the practice where the
person on whom the title falls is a lady.

And now a few words as to the ‘forfeiture’ of a title. This will follow
in all cases upon a conviction for high treason, but not necessarily
for felony. If, however, a peerage has originated in a writ of summons,
and therefore descendible to heirs-general, it will be forfeited on
an attainder for felony. It is a curious fact, too, that although the
Crown can pardon a criminal, it cannot in any case restore a dignity
once forfeited for attainder, so as to place the offender and his
family _in statu quo_. This can be done only by an Act of Parliament.
The Crown can revive the forfeited title, but it then becomes a new
one; so that if a twentieth Earl of X. is attainted, although the
Crown may create his son Earl of X., yet the latter becomes not the
twenty-first, but only the first Earl of X.

There is one more matter of interest which ought to be mentioned here.
We have seen that the barons of Hungerford acquired two titles in right
of their wives. Now, with regard to real property, if a man is married
to a woman possessed of an estate in fee simple or in tail, and she
dies without having had a child born alive, he will, in the absence of
a settlement, or a will by her to the contrary, lose all interest in
such property. If, however, she has had a child which may have lived
only long enough to utter one cry, or can be proved in any way to
have lived after its birth, the husband will in such case, after his
wife’s death, become tenant of the estate for life, and will be termed
‘tenant by the curtesy.’ Such, however, is not the case with regard to
titles of honour; and although, as we have seen, there are instances
of this ‘curtesy’ in regard to dignities, yet, according to Sir Harris
Nicolas, there are none to be met with after the reign of Henry VIII.,
the latest examples being those of Hungerford, already referred to, and
Strange.

Although the House of Lords is undoubtedly an aristocratic assembly,
yet it is essentially a cosmopolitan body, and paradoxical as the
statement will perhaps appear, it may even be said to be in one sense
democratic. It is also to be observed that in this respect the House of
Lords differs from the peerage viewed in its entirety. For whereas the
latter, so regarded, is aristocratic because of the remote ancestry,
wealth, and power of many of its members who have no seat in the House
of Lords, yet this assembly, as a section of the peerage, will be found
to contain men who may fairly be said to be—employing a significant
common phrase—‘Of no family at all.’ Hence our application of the term
‘democratic’ to this assembly; and on consideration, it will be found
to be hardly either far-fetched or inappropriate, because the history
of England will disclose instances in which the sympathy of the House
of Lords has been with the people, where rights and liberties have
been endangered, either by injudicious action by the Commons, by the
attempt to unduly enlarge the prerogatives of the Crown, or from other
causes. The truth is, we have peers who have sprung from all sorts and
conditions of men—from traders, retail as well as wholesale; also from
the professions. Of these sources of supply the legal profession is
the most distinguished, about half the members of the present House of
Lords, including some of the oldest, wealthiest, and grandest of them,
either being descended from, or owing their position to, successful
members of the Bar. We are not aware of any solicitor, as such, having
been raised to the peerage; but the great Lord Chancellor Hardwicke,
ancestor of the present earl, commenced life as an articled clerk; and
Thomas Parker the first Earl of Macclesfield practised as a solicitor
before becoming a barrister. Like his illustrious predecessor Bacon,
he was impeached for corrupt practices in his office, and fined thirty
thousand pounds.

It is amusing to notice—though, of course, the fact is not mentioned
as an argument for any previous statement—that in the peerage we
have a Browne, a Jones, and a Robinson, which are the family names
respectively of the Marquis of Sligo, Viscount Ranelagh, and the
Marquis of Ripon, the present Governor-general of India. Four of
our greatest dukes—Cleveland, Grafton, Richmond, and St Albans—are
severally descended from Charles II. and his mistresses, the last-named
having for his ancestress the fair and amiable, but frail Eleanor
Gwynne, or as she is commonly called, Nell Gwynne. Another ‘irregular
scion of royalty’ is the present Earl of Munster, whose grandparents
were King William IV. and Mrs Jordan the actress. With regard to the
above-named dukes, it is a remarkable circumstance that although
the sovereigns of England ceased in 1801 to perpetrate the act of
absurdity and effrontery of styling themselves kings of France, yet
the above-mentioned noblemen still quarter the arms of that country
on their heraldic shields. At the same time, over such arms, which
are those of Charles II., there is placed the sinister[3] baton—that
is, one extending from nearly the top of the left of the shield to
nearly the bottom of its right—which is the emblem of illegitimacy.
Lord Munster also bears the royal arms with the same ‘abatement,’ as
a herald would say. Then, on the other hand, there are eight dukes,
three marquises, seventeen earls, three viscounts, and fourteen barons
who are entitled to quarter the royal arms of Plantagenet on their
shields without this said baton. But this is not so singular as the
fact disclosed during the course of the ‘Sussex Peerage Case,’ to be
noticed again presently, that upwards of thirty thousand persons in
this country have royal blood in their veins!

The distinction between what may be termed personal titles and those of
a local or territorial character should be observed. Occasionally, one
hears of a Marquis _of_ Townshend, a Marquis _of_ Conyngham, an Earl
_of_ Waldegrave, _of_ Granville, &c. Such expressions are erroneous;
there are, in fact, no such titles, and the ‘of’ is improperly
introduced. We ought to say Earl Granville, &c. So also with the Earls
Cairns, Fitzwilliam, Grey, Stanhope, &c., whose name and chief title
are the same. We have, however, Earl Brownlow, whose family name is
Cust. Moreover, a peer whose chief title is personal, may yet possess
others which are local, but not, so far as we know, territorial. Thus,
Earl Fortescue’s second title is Viscount Ebrington, and the Marquis
Conyngham is Earl of Mountcharles. Again, all a peer’s titles may be
the same as his name, as in the case of Sir J. V. S. Townshend, Bart.,
who is Marquis, Viscount, and Baron Townshend. It is, however, usual in
this family for the eldest son to be designated Viscount Raynham during
his father’s lifetime, the viscounty being, in fact, ‘Townshend of
Raynham, in the county of Norfolk.’

But even where peers do bear territorial or local titles, as, for
example, the Duke of Norfolk, Marquis of Northampton or Earl of Derby,
it is not usual in society to so speak of them except in the case of a
dukedom; all noblemen, whether actually so, or only by courtesy, being
styled simply Lord So-and-so.

It now and then happens that some distinguished man, who for some
reason is not disposed to accept a peerage himself, will yet permit
such honour to be conferred on his wife. This was the case with
the late Lord Beaconsfield, whose wife became in 1868 Viscountess
Beaconsfield, her husband still remaining a commoner. Then, again, in
1836 the wife of Sir John Campbell, afterwards Lord Campbell, and Chief
Justice of England, was raised to the peerage as Baroness Stratheden,
before her husband was, a circumstance which will be found to disclose
the unusual fact of three baronies being conferred in the short space
of six years on two families, each indebted for its elevation to
nobility to a successful lawyer. The father of Lady Stratheden was Sir
James Scarlett, who was created Chief Baron of the Exchequer and Lord
Abinger in January 1835. Next year the Stratheden peerage was created;
and in 1841, Lady Stratheden’s husband became Lord Chancellor of Great
Britain and Lord Campbell. She died in 1860, whereupon her eldest son
succeeded to her title. Lord Campbell died next year; and the same
nobleman also took his father’s title. Thus we have what seems at first
sight the puzzling title of Stratheden and Campbell.

There are a few other instances in the peerage of the employment of
a double title, for example, the Dukes of Buckingham and Chandos;
Hamilton and Brandon; Richmond and Gordon: the Earls of Mar and Kellie;
Warwick and Brooke; Pembroke and Montgomery; Stamford and Warrington;
Suffolk and Berkshire; Wemyss and March; Winchelsea and Nottingham,
&c.: Viscount Massereene and Ferrard (who sits as Lord Oriel): Baron
Saye and Sele; Baron Mowbray, Segrave, and Stourton; Oranmore and
Browne; De L’Isle and Dudley, &c., which the reader inclined to do so
may investigate for himself.

Then we have titles of another compound order, as those of Lord
Clifford of Chudleigh, Howard of Glossop, Vaux of Harrowden, Willoughby
de Broke, Willoughby de Eresby, &c.; and as an instance of _idem
sonans_ in titles, we may mention the barony of Middleton and the
viscounty of Midleton, the respective holders of which are peers of the
realm, and pronounce their titles in the same way.

Some of the heraldic mottoes of our nobility are extremely peculiar. A
very blunt one is that of Byron, _Crede Byron_ (Believe a Byron). A few
of them have reference to the achievements for which the peerage was
originally conferred, or from which promotion therein was the result.
Thus, Baron Exmouth, upon whom a viscounty was conferred after the
bombardment of Algiers in 1816, placed his family motto over his crest,
and the word ‘Algiers’ under his shield. In the same way the celebrated
Field-marshal Viscount Gough had the words ‘China,’ ‘Barrosa,’ and
‘Goojerat’ painted on his armorial bearings, also the Irish words
_Faugh a Ballagh_—that is, clear the way, which is the war-cry of the
regiment known as the Connaught Rangers. Again, Lord Radstock’s motto
is ‘St Vincent,’ commemorating a naval exploit of the first peer, who
was a son of the third Earl Waldegrave, which, however, took place off
Cape Lagos in 1797. The motto of the hero John Jervis, who destroyed
the Spanish fleet off Cape St Vincent in 1797, and who was raised to
the peerage as Earl St Vincent, was the strange-looking word ‘Thus,’
and it is still borne by the representative of the Jervis family,
who, however, is only Viscount St Vincent. ‘Thus’ is a nautical term
of command which, shortly explained, signifies an order to keep the
ship’s head in the direction in which she is proceeding. The motto of
Earl Fortescue, _Forte scutum salus ducum_ (that is, A strong shield
is the safeguard of the leaders), is noteworthy. According to Sir B.
Burke, the ancestor of the Fortescues was one Sir Richard le Fort,
who protected the Conqueror at the battle of Hastings by his shield.
_Escue_ being the Norman word for shield, it was added to _Fort_, and
thus produced the name and the title of Fortescue. The above motto is
also that of the Fortescues Lords Clermont, who are kinsmen of the
others. Two ennobled barristers chose mottoes associated with their
professional pursuits, Pratt, Marquis Camden, having taken _Judicium
parium, aut lex terræ_ (that is, The judgment of our peers, or the law
of the land); while the renowned advocate Thomas, Lord Erskine, adopted
the phrase _Trial by Jury_. This nobleman was the son of the fifth Earl
of Buchan, whose family motto is _Judge nought_; and there is some
singularity about the abandonment of this motto for that of _Trial by
Jury_. There are two mottoes of an extremely suggestive character—that
of Earl Howe (_Let Curzon hold what Curzon held_), and that of the
Marquis Conyngham (_Over Fork over!_). The history of the latter
family will show that the spirit of this phrase, taken in its vulgar
acceptation, has not been disregarded by them. In some of the mottoes
we discover a play of words—a fanciful conceit, as it would have once
been termed. Thus, the Earls of Onslow use the well-known proverb,
_Festine lente_, or ‘Hasten slowly,’ which evidently has reference to
the present form of their name, On-slow, which, however, was originally
Ondeslow. Then, again, Earl Manvers’ is _Pie repone te_ (Repose with
pious confidence). If the position of the letters in the Latin words be
changed, we have _Piereponete_; and ‘Pierrepont’ is the family name of
the above nobleman. The motto of the Earls of Wemyss, _This our Charter
is_, contains their name of Charteris. So also does that of the Roches,
Lords Fermoy, _Mon Dieu est ma roche_; and the motto of the Earls of
Sandwich, _Post tot naufragia portum_ (After so many shipwrecks, we
arrive at port). Then, again, the Duke of Devonshire, and Lords Chesham
and Waterpark, all of the Cavendish family, have for their motto
_Cavendo tutus_ (Safe by being cautious), evidently a _jeu de mots_, a
hazy sort of play on the name of the title.

In a previous paragraph, we alluded to the Sussex Peerage Case. This
was a very painful curiosity indeed of the peerage. The Duke of Sussex,
sixth son of George III., had married, in 1793, Lady Augusta Murray,
daughter of the Earl of Dunmore. The marriage ceremony was twice
performed—first at Rome, and next at St George’s, Hanover Square, and
the union was one of affection on both sides. Two children were born of
it—a son and a daughter, the former having been Colonel Sir Augustus
F. D’Este, and the latter, Mademoiselle D’Este, who became the second
wife of Serjeant Wilde, afterwards Lord Chancellor Truro. That lady
died in 1855 without issue, and the present Lord Truro is accordingly
descended from the first wife. On the death of the Duke of Sussex in
1843, Sir A. D’Este claimed the Dukedom of Sussex; but the Prerogative
Court of Canterbury, the then forum of matrimonial causes, held the
marriage of his parents to have been null and void, as contrary to the
provisions of the Royal Marriage Act (12 Geo. III. c. 11). Sir Augustus
D’Este died in 1849; and this lamentable story in its legal aspect may
be read in the second volume of Clark and Finnelly’s _House of Lords’
Reports_. The Sussex Peerage Case, beyond its painful interest, is of
importance to lawyers, several rules of the law of evidence having
been fixed by it. The same may be said of some other peerage cases, as
those of Banbury and Shrewsbury. And we may also mention that one which
probably stands without a parallel in the records of scandalous family
history, the celebrated Berkeley Peerage Case, a veritable curiosity,
not of the peerage only, but of human life generally, being, in fact,
an agglomeration of frauds, perjuries, and immoral proceedings, all
surrounded by an atmosphere of the most repulsive vulgarity. We gladly
pass it by. Indeed, it ought, except for illustrative purposes, to be
let severely alone.

We have spoken in a previous paragraph of ‘premier peerages;’ and
perhaps a few words are necessary on this subject.

The premier peerages of the realm are as follows:

_England_—Duke of Norfolk, 1483; Marquis of Winchester, 1551; Earl
Shrewsbury, 1442; Viscount Hereford, 1550; Baron Le Despencer, 1264.

_Scotland_—Duke of Hamilton, 1643; Marquis of Huntly, 1559; Earl
Crawford, 1398; Viscount Falkland, 1620; Baron Forbes, 1442 (?).

_Ireland_—Duke of Leinster, 1766, who is also premier Marquis and Earl
of Ireland; Viscount Gormanston, 1478; Baron Kingsale, 1181.

Of all these, Kingsale is the oldest existing title, but, as already
intimated, Lord Kingsale has no seat in the House of Lords. The barony
(by writ) of Le Despencer is the oldest in England, but is at present
held by a lady, who is the wife of Viscount Falmouth, whose son is
therefore heir to both titles. The oldest title borne by a member of
the House of Lords under which he sits and votes is that of De Ros,
this barony having been created 1264, but after that of Le Despencer.

Earls, Viscounts, Barons, and Baronesses are entitled to be styled
‘Right Honourable;’ a Marquis is ‘Most Honourable,’ or ‘Most Noble and
Puissant Prince;’ a Duke is ‘Most Noble,’ or ‘Most High, Potent, and
Noble Prince.’ All peers except barons are by the etiquette of heraldry
regarded and styled as cousins of the sovereign. Thus, a Viscount or
an Earl is addressed as, ‘Our right trusty and well-beloved Cousin;’ a
Marquis as, ‘Our right trusty and entirely beloved Cousin;’ and a Duke
as, ‘Our right trusty and right entirely beloved Cousin.’


FOOTNOTES:

[1] We not unfrequently hear persons speaking of the House of Commons
as though that assembly alone constituted the parliament of these
realms. It should be borne in mind that parliament consists of the
sovereign and both Houses of legislature.

[2] The union of the _crowns_ of England and Scotland by the accession
of James VI. of that country to the English throne as James I. in 1603,
must not be confounded with the union of the two _kingdoms_ themselves,
one hundred and four years afterwards.

[3] In heraldry, the terms dexter and sinister are used for right and
left; and the right of a shield is that which is on the left of the
person looking at it, and _vice versâ_.




A ZULU ROMANCE.


As a rule, the course of true love runs smoother in Kaffir-land than
in more civilised countries. The reason for this is not far to seek.
In Europe, the business of matrimony is complicated by its being
associated with the impulses of the heart; but amongst our Ethiopian
brethren the emotional has but little place or power. The whole affair
is simply arranged by the father of the girl. Eight or ten oxen are
handed over to the dusky Paterfamilias by the eligible suitor, who in
exchange receives the damsel—blushing, no doubt, if one could perceive
it beneath the dark skin. In rare instances, it may be a case of mutual
affection; and in the true story which I am about to relate, affairs
went ‘clean off the track’ in a quite phenomenal fashion. A good deal
of this romantic drama, which took place in and about Maritzburg,
the capital of Natal, came under the immediate notice of my wife and
myself, while the rest of it was told us by one or other of the chief
actors.

It was towards the close of a summer afternoon. The day had been more
than usually hot, but a slight curtain of cloud was now pleasantly
veiling the sun. Our house was situated on a gently rising ground on
the outskirts of the town—a comfortable one-storied cottage, surrounded
by a deep veranda, and standing a short distance back from the road.
There would have been sultry stillness, but for the chirp and whir of
insects, the too frequent ‘ping’ of the mosquito as it hovered around
one’s ear, the ‘clunk-clunk’ of the frogs in a neighbouring streamlet,
and the sonorous voice of our Kaffir ‘boy’ chanting some barbarous
lay in one of the outhouses. Occasionally a creaking, full-laden
bullock-wagon would toil past, drawn by a span of twelve or fourteen
patient oxen, and overhung by a cloud of red dust, stirred up from the
broad, rut-lined, arid highway. Anon, a buggy would dash jolting along,
to the imminent danger of family groups of itinerant Kaffirs, who
would, with a loud ‘Wow!’ jump aside; and once in a while a solitary
horseman, booted and spurred, would be seen galloping to or from the
town.

I was lying in a swing-hammock suspended in the veranda, smoking a
cigar, and fitfully reading that day’s paper. Now and again, my eye
mechanically rested on the road, watching the several wayfarers.
Presently my attention was more particularly drawn to a young Zulu
woman, who had opened our front gate, and was slowly walking up the
path leading to our house. She was probably about seventeen years of
age, though, to one unacquainted with Kaffir physique, she might have
seemed at least twenty-one, and moved with the erect and graceful
carriage characteristic of the race. Her dress consisted of what may
be best described as a canvas tunic, which had originally been a sack,
but round the arm-holes and short skirt was a border of many-coloured
beads. Upon her shapely arms were brass rings and circlets of beads,
while similar ornaments graced her calf and ankle. Her hair had been
combed up, stiffened with red clay, and tied into a bunch—a toilet
significant of her status as a married woman, the Kaffir virgin usually
rejoicing merely in her primitive ‘wool.’

The young woman’s steps were directed to the back of our premises,
where she disappeared. What could she be after? The next moment I said
to myself that she must be one of our ‘boy’s’ relations. The kinship of
one’s Kaffir boy, be it here remarked, is invariably very extensive;
and unless you exercise some strictness, your rearmost premises are
very apt to be invaded by his parents, his brothers, ‘his sisters and
his cousins and his aunts,’ not to speak of his uncles and vaguely
remote relatives. Our boy, Capelle by name, had been told that we were
not to be annoyed by frequent visits from his friends; and as that day
he had already welcomed and hospitably fed—with _our_ maize-meal—about
half-a-dozen of his acquaintances, I somewhat resented the coming of
this youthful matron.

It was in my mind to jump out of the hammock and remonstrate with our
domestic, when I heard stealthy footsteps in the veranda. The next
moment Capelle stood before me, asking permission, as far as I could
make out, for his sister to remain overnight. My wife now appeared,
telling me that Capelle and the young woman had been having high words
in the Kaffir-house. Thereupon I questioned him as to the cause of
the quarrel. ‘Baas’ (Master), he began; and then delivered a fluent
discourse in his native tongue, doubtless full of information, but
almost wholly unintelligible to me, until my wife acted as interpreter.
My better-half, having to scold and direct the boy, had in about
two years’ time mastered the colloquial Kaffir generally spoken in
Maritzburg kitchens. Out of the facts extracted from Capelle and his
sister by cross-examination, the following interesting narrative was
evolved.

Some six months previous, this young woman, whose name was ’Manthla,
had plighted her troth to one Umhlassu, who was now working as a porter
at an ironmonger’s in Maritzburg, and was rapidly saving up the money
to buy the necessary cattle wherewith to purchase her from her papa.
He had now eight oxen, only two short of the number required, and had
secured a hut for her reception. For her part, ’Manthla had given
Umhlassu a pair of earrings, a necklace, a snuff-box, bead ornaments
for the head, and other gifts such as Kaffir maidens present to their
lovers. Unfortunately, another wooer had come to her father, offering
twelve bullocks for ’Manthla; and the parent, very naturally—for such
doings are not unknown even in Mayfair—favoured the wealthier suitor.
The oxen were accepted there and then, without the daughter being
consulted in the matter. As a rule, the reception of the live-stock by
the father is an important point in the marriage-service of the Zulus.
The next step is the arranging of the wedding-feast, at which there
generally is dancing for two or three days, as well as the consumption
of one of the oxen which form part of the ‘marriage-settlement,’ not to
mention the drinking galore of native beer.

’Manthla had steadily declined to take any part in the proceedings,
though she had been in the charge of the matrons of the kraal, who had
dressed her hair in the manner already described. With still greater
persistence, she refused to accompany Indebbelish, her would-be lord
and master, to his kraal, even going the length of producing a knife
and protesting she would take away her life, rather than become his
bride. Her father threatened to beat her with a stick; all her friends
upbraided her; and finally, she was handed over to the old women, who
kept her a prisoner and all but starved her, to induce a better state
of mind. Her almost unheard-of defiance of ‘use and wont’ astonished
the marriage-party; but their amazement reached its climax when, in the
midst of the festivities, it was discovered that ’Manthla had seized a
favourable opportunity to escape. She had travelled on foot fifty miles
into Maritzburg, and it was at the close of that journey that I had
seen her from our veranda.

When ’Manthla had greeted her brother and told him the whole story,
he was of course highly indignant at her disregard of tribal custom.
He rated her in good sound terms, jeered at her, and treated her to
a variety of ill-favoured epithets, in which the Zulu vocabulary is
unusually rich. It was the sound of this fraternal reproof which my
wife had heard. There was really nothing for it but to give shelter
to the fugitive for at least one night. It would scarcely have been
humane to have turned ’Manthla adrift, tired and hungry as she was;
and accordingly the ‘pilgrim of love’ was allowed to take her fill of
porridge and sleep on the kitchen floor.

Early next morning, as I was mounting my cob at the stable-door,
preparatory to a ‘spin’ over the _veldt_ before breakfast, there
appeared an elderly Kaffir, who held up the forefinger of his right
hand and exclaimed ‘Inkosi!’—the native salutation of respect. This was
no less a personage than Pank, the father of ’Manthla and of our boy
Capelle. He was attired in a soldier’s old coat, and ragged trousers
that descended no farther than his knees. On his head was a battered
felt hat; while through the lobe of one ear was stuck a cigar, and
through the other a cylindrical ‘snuff-box.’ Though old Pank had come
in hot haste from the kraal all those fifty miles, and was presumably
in a state of great mental agitation, he sauntered into our back-yard
as carelessly as if he had only casually dropped in from next door. I
have noticed the same characteristic in several other Kaffirs. After
the afore-mentioned salutation, Pank’s lean face broadened into a grin,
and he vivaciously ejaculated two or three times: ‘It’s allee right,
allee right!’ This phrase, which proved to be the only English at
his command, was introduced with great frequency, and sometimes with
ludicrous effect. This optimist remark, however, was not upon his lips
when he caught sight of his daughter ’Manthla timidly peeping out from
the door of the Kaffir-house. His face darkened in expression, and
pouring forth a volley of reproaches, the ‘stern parient’ approached
her. I stood anxiously watching the interview, fearing lest violence
might be the outcome. But after Pank had uncorked the vial of his
wrath, it quickly evaporated, and in a short time he sat down on his
haunches, took the snuff-box from his ear and regaled himself with a
hearty pinch.

I rode off; and on my return, half an hour later, the old fellow was in
our kitchen, calmly consuming a large pot of porridge. It turned out
that he had ordered ’Manthla to be ready to accompany him at once to
the kraal of Indebbelish. Alas, however, for the ‘best-laid schemes!’
When the _babba_ (father) went into the Kaffir-house, he found ’Manthla
had again fled. His anger and disgust were now turned upon Capelle,
who vowed he had had no hand in her flight. The father retorted, the
son recriminated, and it was only by rushing out and brandishing my
riding-whip that order was restored. The old man suddenly grinned and
exclaimed: ‘Allee right, allee right!’ and then his eye catching sight
of a big iron pot which had fallen into disuse, he asked if we could
spare it. My wife sarcastically inquired if there was anything else he
would like; upon which Pank requested a bottle of castor-oil, for the
purpose of anointing his body when he reached home. This being given
him, the injured father strode away, with the big pot over his head
like a huge helmet, and we hoped we had seen the last of him. Not at
all! In five minutes or so the old rascal came back, begging Capelle’s
wages for the next three months. It is customary for the _babbas_
to collect the money due to their sons, but payment in advance was
altogether without precedent. Happily, by disbursing the wages due for
a month which had almost expired, we for a time got rid of the father
of our heroine.

It is time that we again followed her fortunes. When ’Manthla ran away
from our house, she betook herself to Umhlassu, who, true lover that he
was, forsook his work, packed up his blankets, and went off with his
bride to his own kraal. Feasting and dancing were again indulged in,
this time, however, by the bridegroom’s relatives. Hearing of this,
the unsuccessful Indebbelish indignantly demanded the cattle back from
’Manthla’s father; but this just request was point-blank refused.
Indebbelish saw he had no other alternative but to trudge into town to
institute an action for ‘breach of promise’ against Babba Pank. The
machinery of the native court in Maritzburg was in due course set in
motion, and the case appointed to come off in three weeks, a fact we
knew one evening by the advent of Indebbelish, who was about the most
handsome Kaffir we had ever seen. He came to have a chat with Capelle,
who had favoured his wooing in time past, and was still friendly. We
naturally objected to have our larder drawn upon alternately by the
plaintiff and defendant in the pending suit, and so declined to give
Indebbelish board and lodging. But he made up for this by calling night
after night and smoking Capelle’s tobacco.

At length the great day of the trial dawned, and with it came the
beaming face of ’Manthla’s father with his irrepressible ‘Allee right!’
He marched in and billeted himself upon us for about six days. I am
not aware whether this was owing to prolonged litigation or to the
enjoyment of living at some one else’s expense. At all events, when the
week expired, the _babba_ vouchsafed the information that the case had
gone against him, and that he had to restore the bullocks, at the same
time cheerily adding: ‘It’s allee right, allee right!’ Nevertheless, he
went away very downcast, after another ineffectual attempt to collect
Capelle’s wages in advance. A day or two afterwards, the cattle were
returned to Indebbelish with a bad grace; but Umhlassu gave Babba Pank
eight oxen, with a promise of other two at some future period; and
the heart of the old man rejoiced. The sympathies of my wife had been
aroused in favour of Indebbelish; but her interest instantly vanished
when she found that ‘the poor, forsaken young man,’ long previous to
his ‘courtship’ of ’Manthla, was already possessed of three wives! When
Indebbelish received back the oxen from the _babba_, he simply drove
them off to another kraal, and purchased an ebony virgin to complete
his connubial quartet.

About eighteen months afterwards, I happened to be amongst the
Saturday morning throng on the Market Square of Maritzburg. Hundreds
of people—English, Dutch, Indian, and Kaffir—were moving about the
dusty expanse of ground, which was covered with auctioneers’ stands,
bullock-wagons, sacks of produce, cows and horses on sale, and large
quantities of the miscellaneous household goods which find their way
to colonial marts. At one part of the ground, a number of Kaffir wives
were squatted alongside heaps of firewood, which they had conveyed into
town, and were now selling. As I observed them, my boy Capelle suddenly
drew my attention to a woman who was walking towards the group. She
carried a great load of firewood in long lengths poised upon her head,
and a baby slung behind her in a blanket. I dimly recollected her face;
Capelle told me her name, and ran forward to speak to her. It was none
other than the heroine of the love-match—poor ’Manthla!




CONCERNING LOVE.[4]


IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.

Having in the former part of this paper considered certain theories
concerning the nature, qualities, power, and vitality of love, we
would now invite the attention of our readers to some of the symptoms,
evidences, and effects of that passion. Here we find ourselves upon
somewhat firmer ground, for the field now before us is not so much
that of theory and definition as of observation and experience. While
the profoundest philosophers find themselves at a loss in attempting
to formulate some satisfactory theory on the subject, the most
unsophisticated observer can tell us something of the signs and tokens
by which love manifests its presence. The symptoms of the tender
passion are both varied and varying, and we have it on the authority
of Addison that there is no other passion which produces such contrary
effects in so great a degree. Byron describes love as bearing within
itself ‘the very germ of change.’

For a thoroughly comprehensive catalogue of love’s tokens take the
reply of Silvius to Phebe in _As You Like It_. ‘Good shepherd,’ says
Phebe, ‘tell this youth what ’tis to love.’ ‘It is,’ replies Silvius,
‘to be all made of sighs and tears; it is to be all made of faith and
service; it is to be all made of fantasy, all made of passion, and all
made of wishes; all adoration, duty, and observance; all humbleness,
all patience, and impatience; all purity, all trial, all observance.’
If the foregoing be accepted as an accurate description of what it is
to love, one is enabled to understand the belief that the reason why
Love is not included among the virtues is that it combines them all in
one.

Dryden has given us several accounts of the way in which the tender
passion operates upon the mind. In one passage he says:

    Love various minds does variously inspire:
    He stirs in gentle natures gentle fire,
    Like that of incense on the altar laid;
    But raging flames tempestuous souls invade:
    A fire which every windy passion blows;
    With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows.

The same writer, descending to more everyday observations, and speaking
of the condition of a person in love, declares:

    You pine, you languish, love to be alone,
    Think much, speak little, and in speaking sigh.

This is certainly a faithful description of the conventional lover,
whom you meet in novels, and there are no doubt a great many
sentimental people who still languish and sigh, after the old romantic
pattern. Yet there are a great many more who get through all their
love experiences with very little languishing and very few sighs. They
are much too busy, or too cheerful, or too matter-of-fact, to indulge
their passion to the pining or languishing degree; so that tears and
sighs and groans are not by any means inevitable or necessary symptoms
of love. While one lover is to be found ‘sighing like furnace, with a
woeful ballad made to his mistress’ eyebrow,’ another is discovered
basking joyfully in the sunshine of his love, and singing with Moore
that

    There’s nothing half so sweet in life
    As love’s young dream.

Ovid remarks that tears are by no means unserviceable in love, because
by tears you may touch a heart of stone. He therefore advises the
lover to endeavour that his mistress should find him with his cheeks
bathed in tears; and he adds, that if you are not quite equal to the
shedding of genuine tears, you may bathe your eyes and cheeks by other
means. But Ovid is discoursing on the _art_ of love, and what we are
at present considering are the true marks of the genuine passion.
There are, no doubt, few matters in which there has been, since the
world began, so much dissimulation and hypocrisy as in love affairs,
and Ovid’s artful suggestions recall the profane observation of a
cynical writer, that ‘Love consists of a little sighing, a little
crying, a little dying—and a deal of lying.’ It is not our present
purpose, however, to enter upon the false in love, or the spurious
impersonations which stalk about in his name. Let it suffice to say
that Ovid’s crafty advice is founded on the fact that true love is
often tearful and desponding. It may not be, as Silvius puts it, ‘all
sighs and tears,’ but even the most sanguine love may have its moments
of sadness and doubt. ‘Love,’ says one of the poets—

          Love, though most sure,
    Yet always to itself seems insecure.

And Scott declares that ‘Love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.’
Another poet argues that unless you quake and are struck dumb when your
mistress enters the room, you have loved amiss, and must begin anew.

But if love is sometimes downcast and fearful, it just as often
soars aloft on the pinions of hope, for ‘Love can hope where Reason
would despair.’ The lover has a miraculous way of finding hope and
encouragement amid the most unpromising circumstances. He can feed for
weeks together on a word or a glance; and if his mistress frown and
turn her back upon him, he must still lay the flattering unction to his
soul that she merely frowns, as Shakspeare expresses it somewhere, to
beget more love in him. Truly, the lover had need be ‘all patience,’
for ’tis a fickle god he woos. If he would not woo in vain, he must
bear with a thousand caprices, inconstancies, and tyrannies.

Lovers are proverbially blind to each other’s shortcomings, and their
praises of each other are therefore untrammelled by ordinary scruples
on the score of veracity. ‘There never,’ says Bacon, ‘was a proud man
thought so absurdly well of himself as the lover doth of the person
loved.’ It is therefore at once easy and natural for men and women
under the influence of the tender passion to present to each other, and
to swallow with the keenest relish, a great deal of this kind of food.

If we are to credit the French poet Chamfort, who says he has seen
women of all countries, an Italian woman does not believe that she is
loved by her lover unless he is capable of committing a crime for her,
an Englishwoman an extravagance, and a Frenchwoman a folly. Let us hope
that worthier performances than these are sometimes demanded in token
of love’s sincerity—acts of self-denial, of merit, of generosity, and
of faithfulness. Richter is of opinion, however, that ‘love requires
not so much proofs as expressions of love—it demands little else than
the power to feel and to requite love.’ Dryden gives expression to the
same idea, when he says:

    All other debts may compensation find,
    But Love is strict, and must be paid in kind.

How often has love spurned riches, power, enjoyment, the good opinion
of the world, and everything else, in order to meet responsive love
amid poverty, suffering, deprivation, and even dishonour! True love
will sacrifice everything to be requited; for ‘Lovers all but love
disdain.’

Whatever form its manifestations may take, it may be assumed that
the fickle god will not fail to show itself. ‘There are two things
not to be hidden,’ says the proverb—‘Love and a cough.’ It may be
expressed by sighs and tears, by a dejected and distracted mien, and
by what Shakspeare calls ‘the pale complexion of true love.’ It may
be discovered in tell-tale blushes—‘celestial rosy red, Love’s proper
hue,’ as Milton puts it—in bashful awkwardness, and in a distressing
self-consciousness in the presence of the adored object. And it may
be shown no less plainly and emphatically in quiet self-devotion,
dutifulness, and self-sacrifice. It often identifies itself with
various kinds of manias, such as a mania for composing amatory
epistles or writing verses, a mania for going to church, for haunting
a particular street, or for buying kid gloves, patent-leather boots,
and eau-de-Cologne. These, with many other similar and equally harmless
symptoms, are quite familiar.

Then there is a more extravagant class of manifestations that the hard
unfeeling world would describe as folly. When love reaches what Bacon
calls ‘the mad degree,’ there is absolutely no limit to the excesses
that may be perpetrated in its name. But of the comparatively harmless
kinds of folly there is usually a considerable admixture in even the
sedatest loves. Thomson describes the lover as ‘the very fool of
nature.’ It is not, of course, to be supposed that he is ever conscious
of his folly—when he is engaged in it, at all events—for

    Love is blind, and lovers cannot see
    The pretty follies that themselves commit.

Yet it cannot be denied that the folly in love is, to the lovers, by no
means the least agreeable part of it.

    I could not love, I’m sure,
    One who in love were wise,

is Cowley’s frank confession; and most lovers, if they carefully
examine their experience and speak the truth, will echo the sentiment.
Wisdom would never give utterance to all those fond, foolish fancies,
those ‘airy nothings,’ and sweet flatteries that the lover prizes so
much; and wisdom would often dictate a degree of prudence and reserve
and formality that could never be endured by two hearts that beat as
one.

    The proverb holds, that to be wise and love,
    Is hardly granted to the gods above.

After what we have seen of Cupid’s fickleness and ever-varying moods,
it will not be imagined that when love is not all smiles and sunshine,
it is therefore insincere or undesirable. In the words of the poet
Walsh:

    Love is a medley of endearments, jars,
    Suspicions, quarrels, reconcilements, wars,
    Then peace again.

After the storm, the sun returns as bright and genial as before,
and the air is all the purer and the sweeter for the electric war
that has disturbed its stillness. The love that cannot outlive a few
misunderstandings and disagreements can hardly claim to be considered
as genuine, and had better be allowed to pass at once into the limbo of
exploded myths. The truth is, however, that Love often dispenses his
favours in a very eccentric way, and each favour is sometimes paid for
with a more than proportionate amount of suffering; so that the lover
must be often tempted to exclaim with Addison:

    Mysterious love! uncertain treasure!
    Hast thou more of pain or pleasure?

Yet he will probably resolve the problem in much the same manner as the
poet does in completing the stanza:

    Endless torments dwell about thee,
    Yet who would live and live without thee?

Spenser finds that ‘love with gall and honey doth abound,’ and in
computing the proportion of each, he expresses the belief that for
every drachm of honey there is a pound of gall. Notwithstanding this,
however, he is prepared to assert that

                    One loving hour
    For many years of sorrow can dispense;
    A drachm of sweet is worth a pound of sour.

This is the attitude which the lover must adopt; and if the gall
preponderate in his experience—which we sincerely hope it won’t—he must
comfort and sustain himself with thoughts of the honey he has enjoyed,
and that may be yet in store for him.

If the course of true love does not run smooth, that is not always
because the way is not clear enough or level enough, but very often
entirely on account of Love’s injudicious and impracticable behaviour.
If Love will indulge his propensity to masquerade in the guise of
frenzy or delirium, folly or extravagance, there is nothing at all
surprising in his getting into trouble. But what is the use of
sermonising? Notwithstanding all the striking lessons he has received,
and the painful experiences through which he has passed, Cupid is
still much the same wilful, rollicking, mischief-loving sprite that he
was when he first appeared upon our planet; and so, no doubt, he will
remain to the end of the chapter.

At the same time, when all is said and done, is it not just possible
that Love gets blamed for a good deal of trouble and mischief for
which he is really not responsible? Do people not often cry out
against Love’s tyranny and unreasonableness, when they ought to blame
their own selfishness, or pride, or blundering stupidity? Love must
be treated as an honoured guest, not as a slave; and if he leave us,
may we not reasonably ask ourselves, before we begin to upbraid and
revile him, whether we have not driven him away by our own neglect
and heartlessness and querulous impatience? When we consider how he
is sometimes treated, the wonder is, not so much that he should have
departed, as that he should have stayed so long.


FOOTNOTES:

[4] Concluded from page 156.




THE PROGRESS OF CYCLING.


It is exceedingly interesting to the reflective cyclist of the present
day to indulge in a retrospect of ten or fifteen years, and compare
his present position with the status that subsisted in those early
days of the wheel. Nothing could better illustrate the rapid growth
of this comparatively modern method of locomotion than the spread and
increasing importance of the various Exhibitions in different parts of
the country devoted entirely or in part to demonstrating the advances
made in the two or three wheeler during the recess of winter. And these
advances have been most marked during the past year, the machines now
exhibited showing plainly the care and attention bestowed upon them.
In one important detail in particular this is markedly apparent,
namely, in that of gearing for tricycles. It is a well-known fact among
cyclists that the temporary exhaustion following the rapid traversing
of a smooth level road does not proceed in a tenth degree so much from
the actual strength expended as upon the rapid exertion required. To
obviate this, a system of gearing-up has been introduced, whereby the
wheels make more revolutions than the feet. But as this would place the
rider at a disadvantage in ascending inclines or in traversing rough
roads, a system of gearing level or down has been combined, whereby, by
a mechanical arrangement, the wheels perform either the same number of
revolutions as the feet, or less. The combination of these systems has
produced some of the most intricately ingenious mechanisms that have
lately appeared before the public, and cyclists are busily engaged in
testing and otherwise determining which system shall be introduced into
their mounts for the coming season.

In the June number of the _Journal_ for last year we predicted
the approach of a period of unusual activity in cycling, and the
prediction has not proved fallacious; for the season which closed with
the approach of last winter was remarkable in many respects, as the
following will show. In October, the extraordinary distance of two
hundred and sixty miles was ridden on a two-wheeler in twenty-four
hours over ordinary roads; a tricycle under similar circumstances
has covered over two hundred and twenty-one miles when ridden by a
gentleman, and one hundred and fifty-two miles when propelled by a
lady. In August, a tricycle was driven from John o’ Groats to Land’s
End—ten hundred and seven miles—in fourteen days; the bicycle record
by a shorter route being a little over nine days; whilst in October
a bicyclist rode from London to Derby—a distance of one hundred and
twenty-six miles—without either stopping or dismounting. Many feats of
endurance and determination similar to the above have taken place upon
the public roads; whilst upon the racing-path, the great feature has
been the ‘record cutting’ of the year. In 1882, a well-known doctor and
amateur bicyclist rode twenty miles and three hundred and twenty-five
yards in an hour; in 1883, this was beaten by a professional at
Leicester, who covered twenty miles nine hundred and five yards in
the same time; whilst the time for one mile has been lowered from two
minutes forty-one and three-fifth seconds to two minutes forty and
four-fifth seconds. The time for one mile for a tricycle was also
lowered to three minutes five seconds, and all existing tricycling
records from a quarter of a mile to one hundred miles were beaten
last year. But the rapid advances which characterise the sport will
doubtless enable faster times than the above to be made in the not far
distant future, and the records which we now behold with pardonable
pride may sink into comparative insignificance.

The objection has been raised by many opponents of cycling that it is
of no practical value to mankind apart from the means it provides for
healthy recreation. This objection no longer exists. The tricycle is
now used extensively in many parts of the kingdom by professional men;
clergymen in particular are very partial to it; to the doctor it is
a positive boon, ay, and to the patient as well at times, for in an
emergency, the ready steed can be mounted at once, and no delay caused
by awakening drowsy coachmen and harnessing horses. A new description
of tricycle now enables enterprising tradesmen, notably news-agents,
grocers, and others whose wares are of a comparatively light nature,
to deliver their goods with more despatch than formerly; and the
Post-office authorities have been alive to the advantages offered by
this means of distribution by obtaining machines for rural districts
in connection with the Parcels Post and the delivery of letters. The
Inland Revenue Office by a recent order recognises the tricycle; and
the police in some of our colonies have used them for some time. These
facts plainly show that the tricycle has entered upon a new phase of
its existence, and that a noble and useful career undoubtedly awaits it.

The ‘freemasonry of the wheel’ has been pushed on to a greater extent
than ever during the past year, and is a factor which undoubtedly
influences a large proportion of the British public. This is shown by
the increasing numbers of the Cyclists’ Touring Club, which increased
from seven to nearly twelve thousand during 1883, and promises to reach
even twenty thousand during the current year. The ladies are giving
their heartiest support, and are joining in large numbers; whilst
the movement offers so many attractions to all riders in providing
touring companions, hotels with fixed tariffs in nearly every town in
Great Britain and the continent, good-fellowship and congenial society
wherever the cyclist may happen to alight, and other advantages too
numerous to mention, that it includes in its roll many of the nobility
and gentry in all parts of the land, and is supported by some of the
highest dignitaries of the Church and members of the legal, medical,
military, and naval professions.

Other great cycling institutions exist, which are rendering good
service to the general public in various ways, one notably in
calling attention to the decadence of our public roads since the old
coaching-days. In many parts of the country, main roads now exist that
are all but impassable to ordinary traffic; their deterioration may be
attributed mainly to the competition and monopolisation of the railways
in diverting the traffic that once passed over them. Their condition
is a misfortune to the public in general, and especially to the
inhabitants of the locality; for as good roads are certain to advance
the prosperity of a district, so bad ones have ever been considered an
indication of a backward state of civilisation. The local authorities
to whom the construction and maintenance of these roads have been
intrusted, are being aroused to a sense of their responsibility by
influentially and numerously attended meetings of persons interested
in cycling; the laws relating to the highways have been collected
and discussed, and many leading newspapers have given prominence to
the grievances vented at these assemblies. If the result should be
the amelioration of the condition of these highways, the thanks of
the general public will be due to the cyclists, and it will tend to
forge still stronger the link which is fast binding them into closer
fellowship.

To many manufacturing towns, the rise of cycling has been a boon;
to one in particular, Coventry, it has proved perhaps the greatest
blessing that has ever befallen it. That ancient city was fast sinking
into absolute inertness through the falling-off of its staple trade;
it can now boast of being one of the most prosperous towns of the
midlands, with huge manufactories and busy hives of men sending forth
to the world those apparently delicate structures which are now in
such universal request. Other towns, such as Birmingham, London,
Wolverhampton, &c., sensibly feel the demands of the two hundred
thousand cyclists who are computed to be in Great Britain alone, and
the export trade of these towns is rapidly becoming greater in this
particular branch. The two and three wheeler have now penetrated
to nearly every part of the globe; they are no longer strangers to
the Russian, the Turk, and the Hindu; in Brazil, Australia, and New
Zealand, they make steady progress; and even the sacred land of the
Celestials is not free from their enchantments. This wide and general
dissemination of a sport which is essentially English, cannot fail to
be a source of the greatest gratification to those who so sturdily
fought for it and upheld it during the trials of its early existence.




SPRING IN THE ALLEY.


    She stooped and told him that the Spring was born;
      A ring of triumph in her fresh young voice;
    For she, poor child, was in her life’s glad morn,
      And the soft sunshine made her heart rejoice.
    ‘Wert thou not longing for the Spring?’ she said;
    But the pale sufferer sadly shook his head,

    And gazed with sunken eyes upon her face,
      Till its pure beauty filled his soul with peace,
    Then smoothed her locks, and in a fond embrace,
      Clasping her slender form, he whispered: ‘Cease
    To sing the praises of the young Spring flowers;
    Child of the narrow court! they are not ours!’

    O’er the despondent sufferer bending low,
      Till her fair tresses swept his throbbing brow,
    With tender glistening eyes, and cheeks aglow
      With joy and hope, she softly told him how,
    Not very far away, the golden bees
    Wooed the white clusters of the hawthorn trees.

    She spoke of twittering birds, and raised her eyes,
      Bright with the glory of poetic thought,
    To the dark ceiling that shut out the skies,
      And lowered upon her, as she vainly sought,
    With words of loving sympathy, to cheer
    The flickering life that suffering made so dear.

    For oh, that life, unlovely though it seemed,
      Was the dear object of her fondest love;
    Volumes of witching poesy she dreamed,
      Morn, noon, and evening, as she bent above
    His weary form, yet neither light nor bloom
    Could tempt her footsteps from that dingy room.

    Oft, when she heard his hollow cough, she wept
      In the still midnight—how it wrung her heart!
    Yea, she could hear it even when she slept,
      And often wakened with a feverish start,
    Beseeching God, in many a tearful prayer,
    To ease the pain that _she_ so longed to share.

    Blithely she carolled when the morning sun
      Rose o’er the alley like a blushing bride;
    Or grave and silent, like some meek-faced nun,
      Plied she her needle by the sufferer’s side—
    And oh, it was so sweet to toil for him
    Till her hands trembled, and her eyes grew dim!

    Till from those weary hands her work would fall,
      And her dim vision could distinguish nought
    Save the black spiders crawling on the wall,
      And the dead violets she herself had bought
    With the few coppers she had stored away
    From her poor scanty earnings day by day.

    For when before the market-stall she stood,
      Her little purse clasped tightly in her hand,
    She needs must purchase—for each dewy bud
      Seemed like a messenger from fairyland;
    And well her fine poetic fancy knew
    The sheltered places where the violets grew.

    And when she raised them to her eager lips
      With the pure rapture of a little child,
    The dewdrops twinkled on their azure tips,
      Till the young dreamer bent her face and smiled
    With the sweet consciousness that they would bring
    Into the meanest slum a breath of Spring.

    Returning home, her joyous footsteps fell
      Like the soft patter of the summer rain;
    And oh, _one_ weary sufferer knew it well,
      And moaned a welcome from his bed of pain!
    Close to his breast she crept, and kneeling there,
    He twined the violets in her sunny hair.

    Charmed from his fretful mood, the sufferer laid
      One thin white hand upon her worn gray dress;
    ‘Dear child!’ he murmured, while the sunbeams played
      At hide-and-seek amid each wandering tress,
    ‘Withdraw the blind—let in the rosy morn;
    _I_ too am grateful that the Spring is born!’

            FANNY FORRESTER.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._